'Three gunshot wounds. Close range. This Beretta was used.' He handed over Ali Salim's weapon.

They busied themselves over her quickly, put her on a drip, then got her onto a stretcher.

'Go with her, Blake. I'll catch up.'

Suddenly he was alone. He lit a cigarette and went and poured a Bushmills. He drank it down and poured another, his hand shaking a little.

'If she dies, Rashid,' he said softly, 'then God help you.'

A moment later, the doorbell rang again. He answered and admitted two cadaverous middle-aged men in dark suits and overcoats, one of them with a bodybag in black plastic over his left arm.

'In here.'

Dillon led the way through. 'Dear me,' the older one said when he saw Ali Salim.

'Save your sympathy. He shot Superintendent Bernstein three times. I've got his wallet. I'll pass it on to General Ferguson. Just get him out of here.'

'Of course, Mr Dillon.'

Later, thinking about Hannah Bernstein and all they'd been through together, he felt not rage but concern. It was, after all, the business they were in. Rage would come later. He found a leather trenchcoat and let himself out.

Many people thought that Arnold Bernstein was the finest general surgeon in London, but to operate on his own daughter would have been unethical, which was why Professor Henry Bellamy of Guy's Hospital was in charge. He allowed Bernstein to observe in the operating theatre, which was as far as ethics would go.

Ferguson, Dillon, and Blake waited in the anteroom with Rabbi Julian Bernstein, Hannah's grandfather. They drank coffee and tea and waited through the four-hour operation.

'You must hate us all, Rabbi,' Ferguson told him.

The old man shrugged. 'How could I? This was the life she chose.'

The door opened, and Bellamy and Bernstein came out, still in their surgical gowns. They stood up and Ferguson said, 'How bad is it?'

'Very bad,' Bellamy told him. 'The stomach is damaged, the bladder, the spleen. One bullet went through the left lung, her spine is chipped. It's a miracle she's here.'

'But she is?' Dillon said.

'Yes, Sean, she is, and I think she'll pull through, but it's going to take time.'

'Thank God,' Rabbi Bernstein said.

'No, thank a great surgeon,' Dillon said, turned, and went out.

Ferguson called to him, 'Sean, wait.'

He caught up with Dillon on the front steps, Blake at his shoulder. 'Sean, you're not going to do anything stupid?'

'Now why would I do a thing like that?'

'I'll deal with Rashid.'

Dillon stood stone still, gazing at him. 'Then soon, General, soon. If you don't, I will. Just remember that.' And he went down the steps and walked away.

Blake Johnson said, 'An angry man, General.'

'Yes, and with every right to be. Let's talk things over, Blake, and see if we can come up with the right way to handle this.'

Back in Stable Mews, Dillon answered the door and found the older of the two men who had taken Ali Salim's body away. He was carrying a light black plastic urn.

'Ah, Mr Dillon. I presumed you'd want them.'

'What is it?'

'Ali Salim's ashes.'

Dillon took the urn. 'Excellent. I'll see they reach the right destination.'

He put the ashes on the hall stand, then phoned Ferguson. 'It's me. When are we seeing Rashid?'

'I'm not sure.'

'Well, I am. I told you: if you don't make a move, I'll face him myself.'

'There's no need for that. I'll phone him and arrange a meeting.'

'Do that.' Dillon put the phone down.

To his surprise, the doorbell sounded again, and when he opened it, he found Rabbi Bernstein standing there.

'May I come in, Sean?'

'Of course.'

The old man followed Dillon into the living room. Dillon turned, suddenly anxious. 'She's all right, isn't she?'

'So it would appear. Sean, I don't know all the details, but I know what she'd want me to tell you. She wouldn't want revenge.'

'Well, I do. I'm sorry, Rabbi, but I'm feeling very Old Testament at the moment. An eye for an eye.'

'You love my granddaughter?'

'Not in the way you mean. God knows, she doesn't love me. In fact, she hates what I stand for, but that doesn't matter here. I think a great deal of her, and I don't intend to let the man responsible for her present situation get away with it.'

'Even if she doesn't want that?' -'Yes. So, Rabbi, unless you want to stay for a cup of tea, you'd better go.'

'God help you, Sean.'

The old man went to the door. Dillon opened it for him. 'Sorry, Rabbi.'

Bernstein went out. Dillon closed the door, hesitated, then went back into the living room.

The phone rang. When he answered it, Ferguson said, 'Eleven o'clock tomorrow at my place. I'll expect you.'

'I'll be there,' Sean Dillon said, and put the phone down.

The following morning he checked at the hospital and found that she was poorly, but stable. That she was getting the finest treatment in London was a given – Ferguson wouldn't accept less – so there was nothing Dillon could do.

He dressed in dark leathers, a black bomber jacket and white scarf, and took the black plastic urn with him when he left and walked round to Ferguson's flat in Cavendish Place. Kim let him in and Dillon found Ferguson having tea and toast by the fire.

'I didn't have time for breakfast. Blake's on the phone to the President in my study. He'll be with us shortly. Help yourself to a drink. I know you like to start early.'

Dillon did just that, had a Bushmills with a little water. 'Any news from County Down?'

'Oh, Bell's there, all right, and his three cronies, Tommy Brosnan, Jack O'Hara and Pat Costello. Have I got it right?'

'Absolutely.'

Blake came in. 'The President sends his best.

He's very concerned about Hannah. Anything she needs, any kind of special treatment, you only have to ask.'

The front doorbell rang. Kim appeared and looked inquiringly at Ferguson, who nodded and the Gurkha opened the front door. Paul and Kate Rashid were shown in.

She wore a black suit, he was in a leather bomber jacket himself, pullover and slacks. They both seemed cheerful.

'A drink, sir?' Ferguson asked. 'Coffee, tea -something heavier?'

'I'll have what Dillon's drinking,' said Kate.

'Bushmills whiskey, girl, at eleven-fifteen in the morning? You have to be raised to it.'

'Well, I'll have to try, won't I?'

'Suit yourself.' Dillon poured her the whiskey and added a little water. 'Oldest whiskey in the world, they say. Invented by monks in Ireland.'

She took a sip. 'No Superintendent Bernstein this morning?'

'Yes, well, she's lucky to be here at all. She's in the hospital in intensive care. When we got back to my place last night, there was a guy named Ali Salim waiting. I've checked him out. A Party of God fanatic'

There was silence. Paul Rashid said, 'Is the Superintendent all right?'

'Oh, sure,' Dillon told him. 'She's got a damaged stomach, bladder, spleen, a bullet in the left lung, a chipped spine. Just the kind of thing you expect when some religious fanatic shoots a woman three times.'

Kate Rashid said carefully, 'And this Ali Salim? Where is he?'

'On the table over there.' Dillon nodded to the black plastic urn. 'I brought his ashes for you. Six pounds. That's all that's left.' He poured another Bushmills. 'Oh, didn't I tell you? I shot the bastard after he shot Bernstein.'

She sipped a little of her whiskey, then took a cigarette case from her purse and extracted one. Dillon gave her a light. 'There you go.'

'I'm sorry,' she said. 'About Superintendent Bernstein.'

'Well, you would be, wouldn't you? After all, it wasn't supposed to be her, it was supposed to be me.'

'Really?'

Paul Rashid cut in. 'Why are we here, General Ferguson?'

'Because I warned you before, Rashid, and now I'm telling you outright: If it's war you want, then it's war you'll get. I don't take kindly to my people getting shot. We're going to be over you so closely that you won't have room to breathe, let alone pursue your "alternative target".'